


Dark and Deep

by romanticalgirl



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-05 08:10:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The woods are lovely</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark and Deep

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://nolivingman.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://nolivingman.livejournal.com/)**nolivingman** requested Tristan. And I've just given up pretending I don't do everything she says.
> 
> Originally posted 1-9-06

They bury Percival today and Tristan stands at the edges of the sacred ground, watching as Arthur thrusts the sword into the mound of dirt. The rest move off to mead and women, burying their sorrow deeper than they buried their friend.

He steps back, away from the grass and into the wood, distancing himself from the fires and the noise that drown out the soft cries no one else can hear. He slips between trees, threading through them like the quick fingers of weavers, the leaves and branches on the ground ignoring him, not making a sound as he moves with skill and grace.

He is searching on his own tonight, the hawk circling its own prey in the gloaming. He doesn’t know what he’s seeking, but something in him is calling out to find it. Desperation singes his heels as he runs from the wall, the forest growing thick and silent around him.

He stops instinctively, his head tilting. He hears something, knows something is watching him. The woods come alive at night, the mutter of the Woads like a prayer rising in the falling dark. But this is different, and he knows it, knows it better than his own breath.

She appears across from him, her body a silvery white in the shreds of moonlight that fall through the trees. She wears almost nothing, but the knife sheathed against her thigh hefts more respect than the wisp of a girl carrying it. He tastes nothing of youth and inexperience on the air around her, but he senses the tremor of fear.

He begins to walk slowly, circling the glade that lies between them. She moves in tandem, tracking him as he follows her, their steps creating a spiral as they move in on one another, the space between them growing smaller as the light grows dimmer.

They meet and all he can see is the flash of her teeth and the white of her eyes as she stands before him. His hands are steady, always steady, as he touches her, the berry red of her lips staining his palm as she grabs his hand and tastes the power there. He pulls his hand back enough to clench it into a fist, the desire for a weapon fading in the heat of another kind as her hands move down his chest to his stomach, pushing aside leather and cotton to the warmth of his flesh.

He unfastens her knife and lets it fall to the ground, guiding her down after it. He kneels between her legs, pushing aside his tunic as she lies back, her hand moving to the knife’s grip as he runs his hands up her thighs, pushing the short leather covering and drinking in the scent of her. His knees hold her legs apart as he stares down at her, his fingers moving over her flesh with the skill of a swordsman, the dexterity of a marksman. He works magic on her skin until she writhes beneath him, her back arched, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her sex pressed fast and tight against the cool leather of his pants.

He pushes up the strap of leather that covers her breasts and feels the small mounds of flesh, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he lets his eyes almost close, the supple flesh conforming to his gentle grip. She hooks her legs around his, her heels digging into the backs of his knees and he releases her with a smile, as dangerous as any look he has to offer. He reaches down and bats her hands away from his leathers, unlacing them with fingers still nimble despite the night’s cold. He guides her hand back to him as he frees himself from the confines of the tight cloth, moving it along his length slowly. She continues to rock against him, her body slowly aligning with the rhythm of her hand.

He breathes in and then lets her lead him to the wet flesh between her thighs. Her body rests on his thighs and he slides into her slowly, burying himself to the hilt in her willing body. Her heels dig harder against him as she arcs her body, pushing down against him. He lets his head fall back as he grasps her hips and guides her back down to the ground, leaning over her as he rocks inside her, thrusting slowly and purposefully, every stroke determined to meet its mark.

She grunts softly as he pushes deeper, his hands running the length of her thighs, stroking her flesh as he edges closer toward his climax. Her hands scrabble at the forest floor beneath them, her breath hitching in time with the faint calls of the owls and the distant rush of the animals around them. She grasps at him as the swell of her arousal crests, one hand snaring a handful of leather as the other jerks her knife from its scabbard and sinks it into the flesh of his thigh.

He comes as it pierces his flesh, his low laugh the only sound as the rest of the forest grows silent and still. He catches her hand and pulls the knife free of his leg then steals it from her grip, turning it until the tip of the blade is against the bone of her hip. He nicks her flesh then lets the knife fall to the ground, his thumb staunching the flow of his blood for a moment before he raises it to her lips and presses it to the darkened flesh.

He moves away from her and laces his pants again, brushing at the leather on his thigh, the slit darkened further with his blood. He doesn’t help her to her feet as he moves back toward the trees, heading back the way he came. His search, for tonight, at an end.  



End file.
